


Separating Salt From Water

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of past abuse, Season 6 Spoilers, Secret Sex, allusions to rape, show canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the moment he first kissed her, smudged with sleep and hazy with confusion after she’d woken him from a nightmare (Ghost had fetched her, tugging at her sleeve and hem with teeth so delicate they didn’t leave a single tear), Sansa has wanted nothing more than to let herself sink into the oblivious relief of feeling joy and pleasure once again, of choosing, of taking what she wants for once, rather than having everything taken from her. Would she have done such a thing, if not for Ramsay? Would she have turned to her brother in the night with such gladness, would she have shuddered beneath him with such wretched welcome? Would she have ruthlessly overridden his dismay at his actions, at his very desire, using her body to make him as mindless as she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Separating Salt From Water

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Season 6, Episode 7.

It should feel like a farce.

They stand in Bear Hall, facing Lyanna Mormont, a girl so young even Rickon might seem older now, bargaining for what may well end up being their lives as well as his. Family, they speak of, honor. Loyalty. What is right.

And yet, only hours ago, they’d done such wrong, the two of them together in Jon’s tent, straining and grasping and slipping together in the hour before dawn.

She can almost still feel him inside her. After Ramsay, she’d thought she might never want such a thing again, but with Jon, it’s all she wants. Since the moment he first kissed her, smudged with sleep and hazy with confusion after she’d woken him from a nightmare (Ghost had fetched her, tugging at her sleeve and hem with teeth so delicate they didn’t leave a single tear), Sansa has wanted nothing more than to let herself sink into the oblivious relief of feeling joy and pleasure once again, of choosing, of taking what she wants for once, rather than having everything taken from her. Would she have done such a thing, if not for Ramsay? Would she have turned to her brother in the night with such gladness, would she have shuddered beneath him with such wretched welcome? Would she have ruthlessly overridden his dismay at his actions, at his very desire, using her body to make him as mindless as she? Sansa doesn’t know.

The surprise is, Sansa doesn’t care either. Not now. Not anymore.

Jon glances at her, eyes verging on desperate. Nothing goes well with this Mormont child. Then Ser Davos speaks in that plain, homespun way of his, Lady Lyanna cocks her head with fresh attention, and Jon’s face relaxes, melting into tentative relief. He looks that way when he spills, Sansa thinks idly. Heat throbs between her legs beneath her heavy gowns. He’d spilled within her this morning for the first time, after many nights of pulling away and spilling on the furs, the ground, her belly and thighs. She’d wanted it, begged for it, cried hot tears of relief when she felt the warm pulses inside her as he stiffened and jerked, his ragged voice in her ear chanting her name. Perhaps they’ll make a babe, the two of them. Perhaps she isn’t broken inside, as she feared she might be after all Ramsay had done. Perhaps she and Jon can build the Starks once more from the inside out.

The number catches her ear. Sixty-two. Not even a hundred. Sansa could laugh out loud at it, but she manages herself, keeping a placid expression fixed on her face. All this way for only sixty-two men. What can they do with such paltry numbers against so many? What could anyone do? It’s enough to leave her to despair, if she lets it.

Lady Lyanna’s hospitality houses them this night. There will be no tent, the wind will not bite at them in the chill of dawn as they lie against one another, their skin sticking together with sweat and seed and urgency.

Soon, Sansa will have to make a choice. Soon she’ll have to give up this painfully sweet relief she’s found with Jon and acknowledge the past she’s tried to run from. She’ll have to take from one who does not give without taking, unlike Jon. She’ll be beholden once more, a thing she never wanted to be again, to anyone, let alone to him. Yet soon, she knows she must. The safety of her soul matters little without the safety of her life, her family, her home.

But for tonight, she’ll have her oblivion in a proper bed. Tonight she’ll ride Jon amid feather ticking and pillows with linen sleeves, with a fire roaring in the hearth to warm them from the outside the way their intimacies warm them from within. Tonight he’ll come inside her, once and then twice, and perhaps again, and perhaps on some tomorrow, the Starks will grow with the winter.


End file.
